


The Final Word Was Love

by tunes84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunes84/pseuds/tunes84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Why, why must it always come back to John?</i>
</p>
<p>Sherlock is injured and all he can think about is John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Word Was Love

**Author's Note:**

> Another oldie I wrote for my Pat-darling, as she is very demanding of the touchy-fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

There’s a beat inside Sherlock’s head like a distant drum that reminds him of a slow, torturous march to one’s death. His death, maybe, though his feet are not moving, of that he is sure. They’re still, a dull ache flowing through them and other parts of his body, the ringing in his ears failing to match the beat to throw him off balance.

He wonders if it’s a trick.

Sherlock tries to recall how his current situation came about ( _ropes around his hands and feet, blood in his eyes, his mouth, and the smell of gunpowder that lingers in his nose like the incense he smelled as a child after being forced to Mass on holidays_ ).Obviously he’s been left for dead ( _dull_ ), most likely in an abandoned factory or warehouse ( _typical_ ). A gunshot wound is most likely ( _boring_ ) somewhere non life-threatening, so that he may bleed out ( _un-inventive_ ) in a hopefully painful manner.

All of these facts seem far from important at the moment and Sherlock searches his brain, clicks on important links inside his head, only to go back and linger on one image each time he’s believed to have found a reason: _John_.

Why, _why_ must it always come back to John? How can one person have such an impact on him when no other person has ever come anywhere near his heart? Why has Sherlock let this happen?

Another ache is present, but it’s only an ache in his mind. Sherlock never realized an emotion could hurt as badly as it does, so physically there as much as it is emotionally there. There was a fight, he recalls, and words were exchanged that cut like knives and swords and razor blades with a sharpness so fierce it couldn’t be imagined.

Sherlock wants to remember, but he doesn’t want to remember. A struggle inside his head breaks out, pulling and gnashing, pushing and screaming. He needs to remember, his mind says, but his heart informs him that it will hurt.

He’s afraid of that hurt, for some reason. Terrified of it, absolutely unwilling to find the reason why, but his head always wins. The mind, the goddamned brilliant mind, his genius, always ( _almost always_ ) wins. His heart pounds as words scream, feel like punches:

_“I’m done, Sherlock. This is just—this is ridiculous, and I’m done.”_

John was done, is done, forever _done_. Done with the work, the puzzles. Done with Sherlock, in one heated argument.

Stupid! Why had Sherlock been so _stupid_?

Fresh waves of fear and loneliness slide up his spine in a jagged sort of sense, feelings he would never admit to, _God_ , never admit to anyone. John would not come for him; _will not_ come for him.

Sherlock slumps lower into the floor as if it were possible and bites back a cry that flees his throat as an agonized moan instead. A dying animal, filthy, broken and alone.

“John,” he groans, unable to help himself. It’s dark, the only light a thin streak of moonlight coming through a broken window high above him. John frees Sherlock from the darkness of his mind, the only one who ever has ( _ever will_ ).

“John!” he cries a little louder, the only comforting word in the entire world ( _in Sherlock’s world_ ). It’s almost a plea, such begging in his tone that he’s slightly disgusted with himself for even daring to sound so pathetic.

_So pathetic_. “JOHN! GODDAMNIT, JOHN!” Sherlock sobs his name and it feels like it has set fire to his throat on its way out of his mouth. _John, God, where are you John_? He bangs his elbows against the concrete floor before it begins to hurt too badly to continue. His wrists burn from where the thick ropes dig into his skin.

But something is wrong. Sherlock is missing something terribly important, something John said that he needs to remember:

_“You’re a real bastard sometimes, Sherlock.”_

_“We’re through, I’m finished with all this.”_

_“I can’t be here right now.”_

Those were important, but they weren’t _important_. Not important in the way Sherlock needed them to be, because there is something he had to find, though his brain won’t answer him. Bloody thing, what’s the use of being brilliant when he couldn’t use it? Worthless.

It had to be somewhere safe, tucked away in his memories, because he remembers it should be. It was vital, so vital to his very survival ( _or so it seemed_ ) and he has to find it.

“John,” Sherlock tries again, the longing in his voice so , _so_ apparent. How he needs John, his presence, his touch. Just to smell him, to breathe in his scent and feel John’s skin against his own. Just to know he’s _there_.

“Sherlock!”

Weariness clouds Sherlock’s eyes, his ears, his throat, _heart_ and _soul_. The distant sound of drums halt, and he’s sure this is where his march has ended. It’s time to take the plunge, to die with his head held high.

“Sherlock, stop being so dramatic and look at me.”

That voice, familiar and soothing, clears away the fog. “John,” he breathes, and feels his hands start to shake.

“I’m right here, let me untie these.” Sherlock opens his eyes and sees John’s bruised face over him, so close.

“What happened to you?” he asks as John pulls him up. Sherlock winces at the pain in his shoulder and looks down to see a gunshot wound. He rolls his eyes and leans against John for support. John doesn’t push away, instead pulls closer and holds tighter.

“We were bloody kidnapped, that’s what happened.”

Sherlock picks his head up, blocking the sound of sirens to focus on the sound of John’s breathing. They stare at each other a moment before Sherlock says, “Dismal. Can’t people come up with something interesting these days?”

John snorts and rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s. “You’re an idiot,” he says fondly.

A lump forms in Sherlock’s throat, tight, and he pulls away. “I thought you were angry with me?”

With a furrowed brow, John shakes his head. “That was days ago, we talked about it.” He pulls Sherlock’s head down with both hands and studies his eyes. It’s intense, making Sherlock feel exposed.

“You’re a bit unfocused, then, aren’t you? Your head is bleeding, probably a concussion, I’m assuming you were unconscious for a while. We need to get you medical attention.”

Sherlock smiles despite his uneasiness and practically burrows into John’s arms as the flashing red and blue lights make circular patterns through that broken window onto the floor before them. “Whatever my doctor orders,” he says lazily.

_“John. You came back.”_

_“We’ll talk in the morning.”_

_“Why did you?”_

_“Because despite your selfishness, I can’t help but love you. And I don’t ever regret it. You have all my damn love.”_

Finally, his mind is spotless.


End file.
